Mortification
by Alias424
Summary: The door opens with a practiced bang and the swift scent of cherries. HouseCuddy oneshot


**This is something that randomly came to me during an insanely long stretch of photocopying at work. Basically, my muse waved the first few lines of dialogue in front of me and then threatened to run away with them forever if I didn't write this in the present tense and second-person... both things that I normally don't do. Also (gasp!) it's a one-shot, which I honestly didn't think I was capable of writing given the way my muse likes to ramble on. All that said, hopefully this didn't turn out too horribly...**

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**mor·ti·fi·ca·tion**, _noun  
_a sense of humiliation and shame caused by something that wounds one's pride or self-respect

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The door opens with a practiced bang and the swift scent of cherries. 

"You want me."

You swallow. Hard. Try to pretend that the statement has no basis in fact, that the sudden increase in your heart rate can be attributed to anger alone—must be failing miserably, because he's grinning wickedly, completely ignoring the woman seated across from you, the meeting he has very clearly interrupted.

Backtrack. Try to remember. Because there's something in his words that almost makes sense—even in this context. He hasn't thrown you quite enough to make you forget to shoot the potential donor your most apologetic smile, though it feels forced and slippery, melting wax held up by flimsy wires, and you're surprised that she seems to buy it.

It's been maybe two seconds since he's crashed into the room and spoken—much too long—and it's almost shocking that he's giving you the chance to interject, hasn't already filled the void with snarky comments so riddled with sexual innuendo that even the grandmotherly prim and proper Mrs. Jameson (who has thus far, not referred to you as anything but _dear_—quite a switch from the meeting you had been expecting) could pick up on it.

The words are slow and simmering, as they should be. "I need you to—"

"She needs me," House interrupts, triumphant, the lollipop clinking against his teeth as he plunks down on the couch beside Mrs. Jameson and elbows her in the ribs. "Even better."

The older woman smiles politely, almost encouragingly, and you barely suppress a groan. Instant shock and outrage would have been better—it's what he's going for, and now he'll just have to go to greater lengths to achieve it. You're beginning to think that it would be a good idea to start every single one of these meeting with a quick _In Case of Emergency_ rundown: do not under any circumstances make direct eye contact; hands and cane under close watch at all times; hospital security is number one on the speed dial—to reach the local authorities or a SWAT team, dial nine to get out; and most important, never _ever _let him so much as assume that anything he says or does is even remotely amusing.

"God…" you mutter, and then, "_Doctor_ House…." Careful. Warning. It's yellow flashing lights and blaring sirens translated into human speech. He knows it, and you both have to stop yourselves from laughing—him with the ridiculousness of it, you because it's a better option at the moment than either killing him or frustrated tears.

"Greg House." He's already reaching a hand out, shaking the donor's firmly as she offers up her name, and though the irrational, frighteningly hideous monster that puffs up its own chest and roars inside yours is a particularly ugly shade of green—eyes and all—you choose to interpret it as anger rather than what it very obviously is. This deception works only because House doesn't look at you until an instant later, can't shoot you that knowing gaze that always seems to see further inside you than any medical imaging technology will ever be able to. "You gonna join us, Muriel?"

"In the clinic." You finally finish your original sentence, though it's already much too late, and you've risen, are looming over him—imposing, you hope—but he doesn't bat an eye.

"Guess not." House shrugs at Mrs. Jameson, almost wistfully, then nods in your direction. "With _that_ wardrobe you'd think she'd be more of an exhibitionist."

Try to kill him with your eyes. If that doesn't work, you're basically screwed.

It seems to backfire, because he doesn't look at all weakened, but you feel as though _you _might die—or, at the very least and if the world were a kinder place, be swallowed by a sudden hole in the floor below you. The creepy-crawly sensation's a familiar one—doesn't really have the same zing that it used to back when you didn't quite know how to deal with him or the hospital's most important donors, but it's unpleasant nonetheless.

"House. I need to speak with you."

"Exam Three's open." He turns those eyes on you, brow wrinkled, and if you didn't know him and that tone of voice as well as you do, you'd probably buy this innocent act, too. But you can almost see the thought as it forms within him, and his next words are either going to be about acoustics or grabbing Wilson for some extra fun if you don't speak first.

You only get out two words: short, not-so-sweet, and definitely to the point. "Outside. Now."

You excuse yourself from Mrs. Jameson with as much grace as you can muster, and she answers _Of course, dear_, though she's eyeing the two of you with somewhat amused suspicion. House decides to play the gentleman—he can be good at it when he wants to be, and this always gives you hope even as it slowly saps the show of strength you've worked so hard to build. He holds the door open, forces you to walk underneath his arm, sweetly reminiscent of childhood games of London Bridge, and, God, your defenses are cracking if your thoughts have come to this. You grab onto him at the last second to make sure he follows you—the gesture reconstructing some of your control. The door clicks shut and you're both alone in your outer office, visible to who knows how many pairs of eyes, but at least no one will be able to hear you ream him for the umpteenth time this week. If you can manage to be quiet about it.

Speak. Now. Because if _you_ don't first, he'll beat you to it—and you probably aren't going to win this anyway, but that doesn't mean you should automatically cede the upper hand.

His eyes don't leave yours, and if they did, maybe you'd have half a chance, at least, but as it is, it's hopeless, and he's reveling in the fact. You take a too-long breath that somehow stretches and sharpens—harsh, glinting, coldly metallic—severing whatever it was that served as an intangible connection between you. His gaze slips from yours, slides down your cheek, your neck, for once not speeding straight down the route to more mountainous regions—he can tease you all he wants; deep down, you know he worships your breasts. Instead, it takes a detour over your shoulder: following the humerus, radius, skidding over the carpals and….

"God—it feels like a falcon's perched on my arm."

Your knuckles are almost white, but his bicep feels good gripped in your hand—part pain, part pleasure, like most things about him—and you half-wish you could draw blood even through the thick fabric of his suit coat. Though he's complaining, he still doesn't shake you off, only watching, annoyingly amused, and you hurriedly lift your fingers off him, let your arm fall straight to your side. He studies his arm, searching for talon marks, and jiggles it to make sure all the feeling's still there.

If you get through this conversation without cracking a smile, it will be three-parts miracle and two sheer, dumb luck.

"You better have a damn good reason—"

"_You_ wanted _me_." He's all innocent, almost aghast—and you have to admit the look works for him, though not, at the moment, for you. Or at least not in the way that it should. You're supposed to be focused, furious.

"To _work_. In the _clinic_."

He tilts his head, twisting his mouth around the stick of his lollipop and pulling at his chin—you can hear the scratch of his fingers on his stubble. "Brenda wasn't real clear on the specifics."

You lean in closer, hope the whisper at least _sounds_ dangerous. "I've got a donor in there willing to give the hospital a new wing for the—"

You don't realize how close he actually is until you can practically feel his nose against your neck, the cold rush of air as he loudly sniffs at the bare skin there.

"_Way_ more perfume than anyone with a functioning sense of smell needs, but still not enough to cover the reek of pheromones…" he muses, but all you can focus on is the scent of cherries, intensified, and then there's the pulling of your hair as his lollipop catches it. That seems to be the glimpse of reality you needed, and you can't jump back fast enough—the reaction ridiculously delayed. House inspects the candy carefully—glistening and red, what little is left of it—shrugs, and shoves it back into his mouth. "The hair. Not to mention the extra _lift_…."

"With all the money you've spent on hookers, you'd think you'd have learned something about the physics of women's undergarments."

"_Little _more focused on what lies beneath." He's looking for astonishment, annoyance, here—and straight at your breasts—but you won't give him the satisfaction of a reaction. It doesn't seem to faze him, and as you focus all your energy on _not_ sighing—which would only serve to enunciate those features on which he's still focused—he takes advantage of the silence to barrel onward. "Expecting Prince Charming and got stuck playing hostess to his grandmother?"

"No." But the word is flat and you try not to think of the vibrant masculine voice you had spoken with on the phone and the person you had expected to be meeting today. "His mother," you admit after a long moment under House's scrutiny, because he would've forced it out of you anyway, and your face right now is probably answer enough. "It's a family trust fund."

With that, you take a step backward, because distance is always a safe option when House is looking at you in just that way, and there are times when you can never seem to get far (or close) enough. Your heel catches (on your shoe, the carpet, your own clumsiness—and you wouldn't put it past him to have stuck out his cane, the five-year-old), and the world tips as you stumble, trying too quickly and too earnestly to get away from him, even still.

But House is there, with a hand on your arm, oddly safe and familiar, though he's pulling you back towards him. He lets go the moment it's clear that you can stand well enough on your own—a fleeting touch, but enough to jar you. As if he hasn't already. You'd like to say that the pause was only for an instant—more like a full second, maybe two: plenty of time for him to notice, for you to hate yourself, and for life and whatever you call this relationship the two of you have to continue as usual.

"How's Mommy Donor like your powers of persuasion?"

Of course, he's still staring at your breasts, and you pretend to have no idea what he's talking about—least of all how they must have appealed to him mid-trip three seconds ago. Jutting out your chin, you fold your arms. He grins—the motion's always been a dead give-away, an attempt to cover-up, and he knows it as well as you do. But at least the frustration there—at yourself, but still it should count for something—frosts your consonants and hardens your vowels, anger and emphasis in all the right places.

"Now that _you've _decided to _grace_ us with your presence?"

His smile is a mile wide, and you think that if it were possible, you'd dive into it and lose yourself there, discovering hidden depths and secrets that he isn't even aware the expression hides—gemstones and pirates' gold and honest-to-God human emotion: guilt, fear, empathy…the entire spectrum.

Stop. Think. Narrow your eyes.

House nods towards your office, where Mrs. Jameson is watching the two of you but pretending not to, hurriedly checking her watch. "Don't let _her_ see that nasty, wrinkly face of yours. She's not exactly the type to find it a turn-on."

One of these days, you probably will kill him. If his teasing doesn't get to you first. "Clinic, House. Now."

"Your lips say _now_, but your breasts say—"

"Shut up."

Frown. Frown. For the love of God, don't smile. It seems to have worked, because his expression hasn't changed—not that that's much of a clue, what with how he's grinning, but at least his impish smirk hasn't turned wholly triumphant. Yet. Because you think you espy the beginnings of the fascinatingly terrible transformation—more than a simple smile, the way his whole being plays into it, and this must be how a masterpiece is created: single notes and harmony as vital to a painting as color and texture to a rhapsody… everything coalescing flawlessly no matter what the artistic medium.

"Really? I was thinking it was more like—"

Your hand decides to forego rationality and strike out on its own renegade mission, and you can feel his heartbeat under your palm, the sudden stillness of shock as he glances down at your hand and silences a split-second before you begin to speak. And maybe your hand should be given a medal of honor for its forethought and daring, because the sudden power you hold over House gives you just the tone you're looking for: authoritative, frustrated, with just a hint of _within the grounds of this hospital, I _own _your sorry ass_.

"You cost the hospital another donation, House, and I will personally have you drawn and quartered. In the lobby."

Your hand is back at your side now—where it should be, you tell yourself, though your fingers are inexplicably cold. House gazes coolly from your eyes to your hand, seems to consider the graveness of your threat. For all of half a second.

"Now that's a euphemism you don't hear every day…."

There's something in the way his expression changes that tells you it's almost a reflection of yours—so over-exaggerated that it's like standing in the Hall of Mirrors at a carnival funhouse—but, against your better judgment and trying like hell not to, you are smiling.

"There's probably a good reason for that," you finally manage, but he's already halfway out the door, galumphing toward the nurses' station and Brenda's ready glare. If you weren't so focused on trying to hate him at the moment, you might have been able to squeeze out some sympathy as he's handed a chart with such force that he visibly flinches.

Close your eyes. Take a breath. Make sure to wipe that silly grin from your face before turning back towards your office.

**

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mor·ti·fi·ca·tion**, _noun  
_the subjection and denial of bodily passions and appetites by abstinence or self-inflicted pain or discomfort

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You wish it comes as more of a surprise when the door to Exam Three swings open half an hour later, a hand snaking out and snagging you just as you pass. His grip is hot on your forearm, yanking you towards him, and the door shuts with a bang. There's no patient, but that's no surprise considering who this is and how he's grabbed you. Instead, a portable TV sits on the exam table, a woman's soothing voice assuring you that if you use a certain brand of detergent, those annoying bloodstains will come right out of your whites—never mind how they got there in the first place. 

"House…."

He lets go, grinning smugly as ever, suddenly exchanging the expression for one of expert nonchalance. "Mommy Donor punish you?"

It would be nice to be able to tell him that he had cost you everything, that because of his intrusion, the hospital's down another multi-million dollar donation—not because you want it to be true, but since you like to think that one of these times, the consequences of his actions might have an effect on him, even a slight one. But you're still reeling from how your meeting had just ended, and if one new wing for the PICU would have been difficult to hide, two will be damn near impossible. So you settle for chastising: business as usual.

"If you hadn't barged in—"

"You'd only have scored half the goods."

Sure, word about your latest donation victory might have gotten around in the last ten minutes, but it's not as if hospital funding generally comprises the core of hospital gossip. Or any fraction of it at all, unless it's a question of how said funds were procured.

"Don't flatter yourself. You played absolutely no part in Mrs. Jameson's decision to double the trust fund's donation."

At least not any that you'll admit. How Mrs. Jameson had ever even _thought_ that you and House could possibly….

"You can't lie to me…" he accuses, and he's closer now, so close that you should be objecting—but as it is, you're almost glad he's trapped you against the door, as it gives you a concrete reason for not immediately moving away. "You can lie to Wilson. And judges. And old ladies who want to give money to your hospital because they find me unbelievably attractive…."

He waits, an eyebrow raised, and your heart flutters, which must not be safe or particularly healthy. So he had heard everything that had transpired, then, when you'd stepped back into your office to continue your meeting, brimming with apologies and excuses for House's behavior—although Mrs. Jameson hadn't seemed to hear any of them, zeroing in on the one aspect about your hospital (and your life) to which you don't have a ready response.

At least not a concrete one—outside of hospital gossip. But denial, absolutely—both to yourself and in answer.

How, exactly, House knows all this, is anybody's guess—but you suspect you're going to have to sweep your office (and car, house, most importantly, your shower) for hidden microphones and cameras. Again.

"I did not _lie_—"

"So this means I can expect you to have a hot dinner waiting for me, right, woman?"

You roll your eyes, because it's practiced and easy. "You wish."

"Having to go home to _you_?" He snorts in derisive laughter—the sound almost painful, though you won't let that show. "I think I would kill myself. After the hot sex, of course."

"You're assuming that would happen." If you can't beat 'em, join 'em. With House, it's the only way you'll even get close to a win. "Or that you'd still be alive after I was done with you."

His eyes widen and you can almost feel the power slip from his fingers to wrap around yours. You cling to it—the grin is yours now, to twist and spin and use at your discretion. You flash it at full force as he takes one last slow step forward, because you know he wouldn't try to hold it back either. The sound coming from his television only registers because the switch is so apparent: a kitschy advertising jingle instantly becoming dramatic chords and someone positively screaming about an already botched sex-change operation somehow gone even more horribly wrong. _General Hospital_'s back, obviously—usually the signal for all conversation to end—but House doesn't move.

"Is that a _firm_ offer?" he finally grinds out, eyes only momentarily flicking to your chest to make his point, and he's so close that you can feel the heat from his body vibrate in all the molecules between you and you need to consciously remember to breathe.

He can probably tell you he wants to fuck you in three dozen different languages, yet you have a feeling that none of those will ever best the only way he's ever said it: silently, longingly, his eyes raking up and down your body as if you're not wearing anything at all.

"You tell me."

The response is easy and that coy grin is at the ready, but suddenly, you don't want to give him the chance. Because he won't answer—not directly and not in the way you want him to, so if you're going to stay in control of the situation, you're going to have to be the one who decides when it ends. Your hand knows this, if nothing else, feeling behind you for the door handle.

House seems to have the same idea—or maybe its exact opposite. He grabs your wrist and the handle, effectively re-shutting the door and capturing you in one fluid motion. And though you should rebel at this breach of your authority, all you can think as your pulse quickens and the reflection of yourself in his eyes grows larger as his breath mingles with yours—closer and more of it, both torturously slow—is that if this is giving in, then to hell with everything else. You're still almost sure that this moment will end with some sarcastic comment, keep repeating that even as you're hyper-aware of his fingers still bruisingly locked around your wrist, his other hand suddenly at your hip, possessive, and what might just be that first brush of his lips against yours.

_So, dear—how long have you and Dr. House been together?_

Now, at least, you think you have a tangible answer, and—when the room stops spinning, you can taste something other than Vicodin and cherries, and shapes and colors separate themselves out again into something that resembles reality—you can begin to build from there: two seconds, three, four….

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**Thanks so much for reading! I'd love to hear what you thought if you have a chance!**


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